Silence
by Koi Fish
Summary: America refuses to be still, never silent, because when nothing else is left, there are only his thoughts and the dark things he tries so hard to keep from dragging him down. America's thoughts, slight USUK spin. Maybe OOC. Rated for tone, not actions.


Disclaimer: Do not own AP: Hetalia or the songs 'Say Goodbye to Hollywood', 'Wasteland of the Free', or 'Monster'.

**Silence**

Most of the time America could ignore that England didn't love him like he used to. On most days, he had too much to do to worry about some stuffy old island no longer looking at him with adoration. He had to run a country, for goodness sake! And _that_ was becoming more and more of a challenge lately anyway. Then there were political and trade relations with everybody else. And when all else failed, there was an internet full of distractions just waiting for him.

Honestly, Alfred didn't give himself time to think about it, or feel about it for that matter. Even when falling asleep, there was no silence, no still time for reflection. He'd shove earphones in and pick a playlist on his iPod to fall asleep to rather than calmly wait for sleep. That, or he would stay up till all hours, reading, web-surfing, whatever it took to keep him up until he simply passed out with exhaustion the moment his eyes closed. Sleep deprivation was nothing compared to the relief of not having to listen to his own restless thoughts.

There were days though, when there was nothing to do online and a sad song would come up on a playlist and Alfred would get swept up in his own thinking.

Guilt came first, horrible and gnawing deep down in his gut. Guilt over the Revolution, his inability to talk properly to England, not being able to save him fast enough during WWII, getting him involved in the Middle East, not being the person England so desperately wanted (_needed_) him to be. He would freeze and stare at the computer screen blankly, feeling waves of shame and remorse wash over him, not bothering to limit themselves to just what he'd done to England.

Cold loneliness followed on guilt's heels, in large sweeping waves of frozen empty feelings. Alfred buried himself in jackets, blankets, whatever each time, but he was still left shivering, reminded that though he was the number one world superpower, so many people wanted him dead. So many were angry at him for not doing more, being better. No one, not even his own brother was close to him anymore. The only one who consistently backed him, if grudgingly at times, was England. And it was painfully clear that _he_ wasn't anywhere to be found on the nights when Alfred could feel the world hating him, just wishing desperately for someone to tell him they loved him, that he was doing the right thing. That maybe it wasn't all in vain.

All the dark feelings left at that point fused together in a sickening mass of self-loathing, fear, sadness, doubt… Everything in one scary blanket that made Alfred physically ill on more than one occasion. It was with his face pressed to cool porcelain, having emptied his stomach, that America could hear the worst voices in his head; his own people. _End it for good  
Just say goodbye to Hollywood…_ _Living in the wasteland of the free…_ _No matter who's the winner We can't pay the cost 'Cause there's a monster on the loose_. Slumped on his bathroom floor, breathing hard, it was hard not to cry his throat raw.

And it would all circle back to Arthur. Arthur, who had held his hand when he was young. Arthur, who had whispered softly and washed his face when he'd been sick and scared as a child. Arthur, who had cried over losing him, who had loved him once upon a time. Arthur, who was the only one still standing relatively near him. Arthur, who was nowhere to be found when nights got cold and lonely and sickening.

Alfred would drag himself into the shower and let hot water pound into his skin until he felt numb, until he could breathe again. Sometimes it was too much effort to move when he turned off the water and he would sit still for minutes, hours watching water droplets evaporate. Sometimes he would shakily rise to his feet and stumble to his bed, not caring that the sheets would be damp in the morning or that he was still shivering with physical cold now, because at least it distracted from the endless worry and loneliness.

It wasn't easy to be the city on the hill, America had decided a long time ago. Sure, everyone wound up looking up to you, but there was barely room for one at that pinnacle and the silence had become deafening when he had looked around and found himself alone. It was hard to believe sometimes that he was doing right. It was hard not to slip into helplessness. It was hard with no one to hold your hand, even if only to walk beside you if they could not lead.

In the morning, America would have the headache to remind him it was unwise to let himself drift off. He needed direction. He needed to keep moving forward, smiling and leading and rescuing like he was born to do. Because in the silence of still moments, he often wondered if there was anyone left to save. And with no one to save, what was a hero but a lonely figure, high on a hill, untouchable, unable to be saved himself.

In the morning, America would call England, knowing full well what time it was when he did, that England would most likely be in an important meeting, but calling nonstop until the phone connected. He would listen to the lecture, breathing easier for the existence of a voice that at least cared enough to correct him, not simply blame. He would make up the lamest excuse on hand when questioned about the nature of the call and listen with a smile to the yelled paragraph of what he'd done wrong and how to fix it. He would apologize half-heartedly, knowing he would consciously decide not to change.

America would go back to his normal self, forgetting the world unless it seemed important at the time. Forgetting how many glares and under-the-breath threats he received daily. Forgetting that there was anything to do with a night except drive himself to exhaustion and pass out to a dreamless sleep. Forgetting how much he needed England until he woke up again.

* * *

A/N: Um…I feel really horrid right now because I think I'm losing a friendship that has been very important to me for years and I don't know how to fix it. America came to mind along with the reality of just how many people despise us and want us to fail. This may be OOC, but if I can worry so often about the path we're headed down, why can't the country himself?

I apologize if this is weird psychobabbling on my part, but I had to get it out.

_Hold onto your friends! They are important! Talk whenever you can, be honest, and think before you act! _I'm learning these things the hard way.


End file.
